


Catch-44

by PaperAnn



Series: PaperAnn's Bingo 2018 Works [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Background Case, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Humor, Flustered Dean Winchester, In Public, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, SPN Fluff Bingo, SPN Fluff Bingo 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 08:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperAnn/pseuds/PaperAnn
Summary: It's nothing new for Sam and Dean to be out on a case, when a witness (law enforcement, potential victims, hell—even the monster of the week!) assumes they're a couple.  While it used to be easier to brush off, once they actuallybecame a couplethings went from bad to worse.  Specifically, Dean's horrendous acting.After yet another incident occurs, Sam has an idea.  Would it really be so terrible if theyfakedbeing a couple as cover during investigations, whilehidingbeing a couple in public, even though theywerea couple in private?  Yeah.  It was about as complicated as it sounded.





	Catch-44

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SPN Fluff Bingo 2018  
> Square Filled: Mistaken for a Couple
> 
> **Ann's Notes:** Similar to SPN Kink Bingo, my plan is to update/arrange the series with alternating ships :) I want to make sure all of my faves (Destiel, Sabriel, Wincest) get equal screen time, and I'm hoping you beautiful people find that idea fair, too!
> 
> I'm super thrilled and honored from a recent influx of user subscriptions, and I'm going to continue with my newly-discovered variety method (different fic length, tropes, plus a solid, expanding archive) because I think it means I'm doing something right! 
> 
> All three of these pairings (and perhaps surprise ships?) will get lots of fluffy attention! No matter which is your OTP, I have many more works coming your way <3

A coffee shop ended up as the neutral grounds where the Winchesters questioned their fourth—and final—witness of the day.

Both Sam and Dean were road-weary and exhausted from varying accounts on the damn case.  They’d 'narrowed down' their culprit from other sources.  It was between a ghost, demon or a phantom-octopus-armadillo-hybrid.  Which meant they had jackshit.

“I think that’s her.”  Dean jeered his thumb towards the soccer-mom walking through the front doors.  As she peered around, looking for them, they both stood up and waved her over.  “Hello, Mrs. Randolph?”

“Hi, oh—I’m sorry I’m late!  Rush hour here can be tricky and, well, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” she explained, and shook both their hands. “You told me over the phone you were with…?”

“We’re reporters, we write for the Daily Grind,” Sam supplied, and gestured to the table as they all sat down.  “We got you a coffee, it should still be hot.”

“Thank you, _God_ , I need it.  It’s been a hell of a day.”  The woman, Sally Randolph, all but collapsed into her seat and tossed her sunglasses into her backpack of a purse.  “When does this hit the news stands?  I didn’t think one murder would catch the eyes of a paper that wasn’t our own Eddington Herald, here in town.  But when you’ve got a body…” she sighed heavily and dove for the sugar.

“Yes, that’s actually what we wanted to ask you about.  You were the one who found Mr. McCormick.”  Dean crossed his arms on the table and leaned in, glancing at Sam—who took the hint and pulled out his pen and paper.  “What was it like being the first one on the scene?  Give us the, uh, _experience_.”

“Well.”  She paused after dumping in her fourth packet of sugar, both watching her closely—but hopefully—in support.  “It…smelled.  He’d been there for a while, you know?  So after I got over my initial shock of seeing a honest-to-God corpse, the _second_  shock was the smell.”

“And, that smell, was it more than...” Sam fought for the proper way to phrase it, and when he came up dry—

“More than dead dude?” Dean helpfully supplied.  “Like, hints of sulfur?  Maybe flowers?  Like someone tried to mask the smell?”

Sally’s stare was blank when she slowly pronounced, “No.  The decomposing flesh was what overwhelmed my nose.”

“Okay—” Sam shared a glance with his brother before drawing a few squiggly lines on his notepad for effect.  “He’d been dead for three days.  You were his co-worker, did you volunteer to go check up on him?  Was the rest of the staff worried?  I know he didn’t have any family that came forward.”

“We really needed him to sign-off on a series of documents.”  She took a long chug of overly-sweetened coffee, and it thudded on the table when she set it down.  “Off the record?  No one liked him.  I didn’t _want_ to go see him to begin with, let alone walk into a crime scene, trust me!  But after lunch, I ended up getting the short end of the stick.”

Catching each other's eye delivered a mutual sign of significance—this was a new detail.  Everyone until now said they 'didn’t know' the victim well and he had no personal relationships with those surrounding him.  With this information coming to light, it wasn't a matter of being antisocial: it was McCormick being disliked.  Hell, this woman sounded downright annoyed and bitter about the guy.  That changed things and the investigation.

Sally's own expression transformed into an odd kind of interest.  Her scrutiny was directed at Sam first, then it skated towards Dean.  It only lasted for that fleeting moment, before she continued with her story.  “Boss agreed that if I went, if I got his signature and returned the paperwork to the office, I could have the rest of the afternoon off.  I planned on bathing in a vat of hand sanitizer when I got home.  You know, to avoid whatever plague the guy contracted, because Mr. McCormick _doesn’t_  get sick.  Should have figured he got dead.”

Sam tried to resist, but he couldn’t help looking at Dean and raising an eyebrow—Sally's off-color remark echoed something _Dean_ would say, it was uncanny.

Wordlessly, Dean shot him back one of those ‘ _fuck off, bitch_ ’ faces.

“Did Mr. McCormick have anyone?” Sam wondered aloud.  "Anyone at all who—?"

Except, Dean interrupted with, “We should be asking if there was anyone who didn’t hate his guts,” and a follow-up snort.

“ _Dean_ ,” he pivoted and lowered his voice, his shoulder enough to box out curious eyes when he hissed, “We’re not here to gossip!  She may know if he had any real enemies.  And then this may not even be _our_ kind of thing!”

“Yeah, yeah…”  Thoroughly admonished, they faced their witness again with bright smiles.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Randolph, we have a few more questions—”

“Only if I get one first.”  Her head was tilted with rapt curiosity, her focus ping-ponged between the pair, “How long have you two been together?”

“B-beg your pardon?” Dean stuttered, like he always did, a hint of color beginning to rise to his cheeks.

Oh shit.    
  
Before they’d gotten together, this had been a hot topic that pushed buttons.  Ever since then?  It had gotten exponentially worse, because Dean’s poker face surrounding anything that had to do with 'them' straight-up _sucked_.  He fell apart in an instant, and Sam was constantly on damage control.  He had to pick up the pieces and turn it around _before_ Dean turned into an awkward, blushing and bumbling (adorable) moron.

Sam tried to save him—and himself—by laughing it off and heartily patting his brother on the back.  “We’re been partners at the—”

“Yeah!  P-partners at the _magazine_ —”

Sam swiftly kicked him under the table, nailing his shin.

“Dean, it’s a _paper_ , Sally, we're _partners_  at a _paper_ , journalists, reporters—” Sam’s voice was sporadically jumping in volume, and he wasn’t sure when the fuck he was whispering or when he was practically _yelling_ across the table, “And we’re been partners for five years—”

“Nine years—” Dean said at the same time.

Well, Sally looked downright thrilled with herself, “Someone’s confused about their ‘employment’ anniversary.”

Sam and Dean shared a fierce glare, followed by surge of defeat, and finally got their shit together.  Not _completely_ together.  Dean was antsy and the nervous energy turned into a bouncing leg, one on the verge of rocking the damn table.  Yes, the same pained leg Sam had nailed with his heel—the shaking had him itching to boot Dean again!  But their priority was to wrap up their interview with their witness.  They needed to focus!

The same witness who decided to encouragingly express, “I think it’s wonderful they allow couples to work together!  A good office romance is just the way to keep things _spicy_ , don’t you think?”

Dean did not appreciate the shimmy of her shoulders.  His knee-jerk reaction was _literally_ a knee-jerk: his restless leg flew up and smacked the bottom of the table.  He cursed under his breath and doubled over while Sam muffled his laughter.  Now, Dean wasn't merely fighting his kneecap injury, he almost gagged when she...shimmied again.  What the hell?!  Yeah, _oh God_ , he was gonna throw up—

Slowly, Sam gathered the notebook and flipped to a new page.  He cleared his throat, and repeated, “Mrs. Randolph. There are only a few more questions…”

\-----------------

Without a solid lead on this stupid case—their only breakthrough knowing the victim was America’s Most Hated Loser—it shouldn’t have surprised Sam that at the end of the night, Dean went right for the hard liquor instead of a beer.  What managed to catch him a bit off guard was when two glasses clanked together and Dean was pouring him a shot as well.

He didn’t seem rattled as much as he appeared…nervous?

By the time Sam had tossed back the lukewarm whiskey, Dean had already refilled his own.  Twice.  He was speedily moving for a third.

Sam watched his brother collapse back against the crappy motel room bed, the impact enough to slap the headboard into the wall.  All while he balanced the fifth, the cup and the remote.  There was nothing graceful about Dean’s grumbling, his channel surfing and the way he eventually opted for the bottle over the glass.

With a heavy sigh, Sam said screw it and gave in.

He kicked off his shoes, shut down his laptop and slung his jacket over the chair, joining Dean in front of the TV.

They passed the bottle back and forth, the silence between them weighing a little heavier even with the white noise of the TV.  Both knew they weren’t really watching it.

When Dean was this huffy, Sam knew there was something on his mind.  He had a pretty good idea what it was.  And he knew Dean wasn’t going to bring it up.  The liquor was fuel, it had replaced their normal bullshit-over-a-beer.  This was grease for the wheels designed for  _Sam_  bringing up something heavier than a chat.

It was so goddamn irritating.  Clearly, everything in Dean was _screaming_ to have a conversation, but he was too damn stubborn to open his mouth!

He always fucking did this!  He always put the burden on Sam!  But what did he want Sam to say—exactly?  Because if it was the wrong thing and Dean was tipsy they’d end up in a fight.  Or horizontal.  Very, very quickly.

Sam wondered if Dean simply wanted to bitch about it, complain to a listening ear, to let some of the stress out…but what would happen if he was hit with a curve-ball?

Very suddenly, an idea struck Sam.  He stole the whiskey from his brother’s hand and chugged.

That was enough to capture Dean’s attention and he chuckled with a raised eyebrow.  “You gonna leave any for the rest of us?”

“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.”  He handed the bottle back over, and said, “Would it really be so bad?”

“Would _what_ be so bad?”  Dean was confused, as he should be with the vague question.

“We pretend every day,” Sam explained, leaning on his hip and shifting over—he was completely focused, and he garnered Dean's in turn.  “Feds.  Animal control.  Hell—even priests.  Why not pretend to be _real_?”

Dean's jaw dropped and he blinked dumbly before raising a finger.  “First of all, you can’t _play_ at being _real_.  That’s what real is—it’s _not_ fake, no pretending involved!  Pretending to be real as a cover while you're _really real_ but don't want 'em to know you're real, that's like, uh, a Catch-44, dude!  It hurts my head!”

Dammit, Sam was trying so friggin hard to keep from cracking up, and Dean looked like he wanted to punch him.

“Second!”  He ground his teeth together, trying to come up with a point...except, they both knew he was too gobsmacked by Sam’s idea to have one. “T-that’s just ridiculous!   _Why_  should we…why the hell _would we_ pretend to be together?!”

“Because we are?” Sam was struggling to keep his shit-eating grin closer to that of a sincere smile, but it kept flickering back and forth.  “I mean, why correct people?  Wouldn’t going with the truth be easier?  And it’s still a disguise, you know?  It’s a story that we’d never have to worry about getting straight.  No one thinks we’re brothers they always, _always_  think we’re boyfriends.  Or husbands.  Maybe if we decided to go with the flow...you would't almost blow our cover every time it’s brought up.”

Dean whipped around, indignantly snapping, “I _do not_ blow our cover!” while the tips of his ears turned pink and Sam’s smirk turned wicked.

“You’re doing it right now.”  He scooted forward, the space between them nonexistent, and he took the bottle away.  Sam set it on the nightstand and faced Dean head-on, no more than a breath separating them.  “You get embarrassed.  It makes us look more guilty.  Make them look like they found out our secret.  Why don’t we…” he brushed his nose against Dean’s, “let them be right?”

Dean trembled, his hand lifting off the bed and tentatively resting on Sam’s thigh.

Normally, this was the time where they’d be ripping each other’s clothes off.  Where Sam would have pushed too far and Dean would be ‘teaching him a lesson.’  Or whatever bullshit reason he’d throw out to get his mouth all over Sam.

Yet…he hadn’t.

Which surprised both of them.

Sam took that as a sign to pull away, if only to give his brother air.

Dean’s eyes were flitting around anxiously, his hand on Sam’s thigh tightening—maybe out of instinct—before he swallowed hard.

“Is that what you want, Sammy?”  His voice held more wonder than anything else, and _that_ managed to turn the tables.

Here Sam was, trying to rib into Dean, and now there was something genuine peering back at him.  Wait…if this was really a question, did that mean there was an honest chance that they’d—?

“In a situation like today?” Sam overlapped Dean's hand with his own.  “Yeah.  It’d be so easy.  Someone we’d never see again?  Who we’d never have to answer to, in a city we'll never revisit?  Why not?”

“I see what yer doing here, you know…”  This time, when Dean’s tone turned husky and he leaned in far enough to graze his lips against Sam’s neck, he couldn’t help but moan.

The bold nip against his collarbone, right where the neck of Sam's shirt laid, happened to be a place Dean loved to tease.  The barest hint of teeth would leave a brilliant hue of red when he used his mouth on the side of rough where Sam got off on—all while Dean easily popped open the buttons on that damn shirt he should have taken off forever ago—!

Sam tried to make it easier, he lengthened his neck and shrugged off the shirt the second Dean untucked it from his slacks.  “What am I trying to do?”  He had to admit, he was wondering the same thing.  Sam thought being able to be open about their relationship would be a weight gone, no matter how short the cases.  That the spontaneity would do them both some good.

Only being in his tee-shirt and pants allowed Dean to move much more freely, and once he hauled Sam down on the bed, moving him right where he wanted him—he clucked his tongue.  “You just wanna hold my hand in public, Sammy.  Wanna go on dates.  You want me to take you to the movies?  So we can make out in the back row?”

“Fuck you,” Sam burst out laughing and grabbed nape of Dean’s neck, hauling him down.  “Damn right, I wanna hold your hand, jerk.”

Dean couldn’t help but join Sam’s laughter as their lips met, turning into hot, open-mouthed kisses.  For as much as Sam wanted to punch him in the stomach for being a dick, he wanted him in a much more carnal way, one that always ended up winning out.  And when Dean’s hips dropped, their erections crashing together, everything else faded into background noise.

Except, there was the problem of Dean being like a dog with a bone.

As their clothing flew off, their hands and mouths clumsy, yet even more desperate than usual from the liquor, Dean asked thoughtfully, “So which is it? Boyfriend?”  He shoved Sam’s legs apart.  “Husband?  I gotta know the story if I’m gonna commit.”

With a scoff, Sam decided to switch things up.

While Dean was taking their position for granted, Sam was determined to turn the tables on him.  It began with Sam wrapping his legs around Dean’s waist and locking his ankles together.  Yeah, it was clear as day he had more to drink than Sam, when he was flipped upside down and pinned on his stomach, no friggin clue what hit him.

There was a growl in Dean’s throat, when Sam cut him off, rutting between Dean’s ass cheeks.  “Boyfriend or husband...depends o-on the location.  How _open_  they are,” he taunted, as the head of his cock caught on Dean’s rim.  “Far as the story's concerned, I was obviously the one to pop the questi—”

“Bull!” Dean glared over his shoulder, then muttered, “I’m _totally_ the man in the relationship.  Now, grab the damn lube…”

“That’s, heh, not how things work, Dean,” Sam tried for a half-second, but knew any argument about his brother and his macho-ness would end badly.

Even here: as Dean swung his ass to tempt Sam, already stretched to take a cock from last time they fucked _and_  always willing to gleefully beg for it—Dean always proclaimed he was 'totally not a bottom.'  But that was just…Dean.

The thrill in all of this wasn't a dream, for Sam this was a win—the thought that they could _actually_ be open about them, even if it was case-related.  Hell, he’d disguise it anyway Dean wanted him to disguise it, if he was willing to go along with it, that was all that mattered.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean swayed his hips impatiently, nearly tipping off balance as he sat backwards, searching.  “You’re being a shitty husband— _fuck_ —!”

The long, wanton shout was loud enough to be heard from _rooms_  over, and he couldn’t lie—Sam, knowing that the act of sliding his cock inside Dean’s needy hole was enough to warrant _that_?  Holy hell, what other noises would Dean make tonight?

The last inch was a harsher plunge inside, a jolt of sensation that had Dean grabbing the headboard and Sam kissing the knobs of his spine.  While he allowed a moment for both of them to catch their breath, Sam’s hands worshiped Dean’s back, his sides, before wrapping around and settling.  One on his hip, and one on his cock.

As he draped himself over Dean, Sam whispered, “I’m gonna be an awesome husband.”

“ _God_ —” Dean made damn sure he had a good grip on the headboard before he teased, “Gimme a taste of those nuptials, baby,” with a cockiness that Sam had to fuck out of him.

He wouldn’t disappoint.

Sam pounded into Dean, reckless and eager to please, playing to an audience that included the entire first floor of the motel.  He knew exactly how to piston his hips that punched the best, colorful curses from Dean.  The way to move his hand in time with his unforgiving thrusts that had Dean sweating, wet, and oozing precum.

He knew how to turn Dean into more animal than man, handing himself over to Sam and trusting him to pleasure and blow his mind.  The begging, the demands that were pouring from Dean’s mouth were so out of place: the spectrum was Sam's fantasy-turned-reality and hunger, but more than anything—urgency.

Sam felt it in his bones.

The make-believe yet true bond became _something_ , a desperate role-play they craved outside the bedroom.  The fact that after all this time they could still surprise each other was amazing.

“Fuck yeah, Sammy,” Dean’s back was rolling and arching like a cat, “Just like that—”

He could tell all from the slightest change in volume and tone, his brother was mere seconds away from release.  Sam was thankful, because the show Dean was putting on?  The way he was moving in a fully-lit room, pitching back to ride his cock as much as Sam was fucking into him?  Everything quickly spiraled.  Sam felt cum splashing on his hand moments before he filled Dean with his own.

Even though they _usually_ pulled out…Sam figured their captivation, the liquor, every intimate thing that happened wouldn’t have pissed off Dean too much.

Sam was correct.

Fucked out and content, Dean rolled over onto Sam's heaving chest and snickered, “You just wife’d me, bitch.”

“I thought I just wanted to hold your hand?” he asked innocently, “And…make-out.  At the movies.”

“Maybe we both could use some’a the normal happily ever after…”  It was a whimsical thought said aloud, something that a sober Dean, one who wasn’t in the afterglow, wouldn’t normally say.

But Sam would take it.  He actually liked the idea a lot.  Too much.

“Yeah, I agree,” he whispered and kissed Dean’s forehead.

Luckily, his long limbs were within reach of the remote, and he finally turned off the TV.  Sam set it on the nightstand and returned to where he was always happy: wrapped around his brother, ready to turn in for the night.  Dean was already pulling the sheets around both of them, making himself comfortable.  For once...they were better than all right.

Sam wouldn’t rub it in or do anything to risk ruining the moment.  He had a hopeful feeling this ‘undercover as a couple’ thing may very well be something he could use in the future.  Since Dean was all right joking about it now, maybe they _could_ do something as silly as hold hands…and a freedom like?  No matter how simple and mundane?  It would have Sam over the damn moon.

“Night, Sammy.  I’m gonna show you who _really_  wears the pants in the morning,” Dean grumbled, nuzzling against his neck, already half asleep.

Sam laughed because the fact was: he’d let him.  Tomorrow, he'd probably encourage Dean, even though tonight he joked, “Fat chance,” as he held him just a bit tighter.  “Only thing you’re getting from me is breakfast.  If you're lucky.”

Dean must have thought he was being witty through his sleep-haze when he half-quipped, half-snored, “In _bed_.  Then we‘re gonna solve this fuckin' case…” Dean was out like a light.

With a stupid smile on his face, Sam shook his head and sunk into the mattress, concentrating on Dean’s beating heart.  More real-life, pretend-relationship, cover-for-an-investigation rehearsal, breakfast in bed and then solving the ghost, demon, phantom-octopus-armadillo-hybrid case, it was.


End file.
